Sherlock in an Iron Maiden
by robot-keayleuu
Summary: Sherlock communicates with John from the inside of an Iron Maiden


Sherlock is in a dark place.

Long, rusted spikes are embedded into his skin and he hyperventilates, afraid. He can feel them around him-Sherlock feels everything but here, there's nothing to perceive. Not a thread caught on a spike or a shard of light to hint where the door might be, just darkness: black and everlasting darkness.

Fear disconnects his mind from his body and he's unable to sense anything around him correctly. His vision is slurred and time has no meaning- he's hot and uncomfortable, locked in this casket alone.

'John, John, John, John...'

Sherlock is scared. He chants the name 'John' because it gives him hope. Spikes are inches from his skin and fear surrounds him like a moat, making it difficult to order his thoughts. Still, Sherlock tries.

John- John could help him. Like a voice in the dark, his brain registers the meaning of the word and his fingers slip into his pocket. They're wet with perspiration, and when they touch the metal backing of the phone, he almost slips and drops it. _Almost_. Shakily, he dials John's number.

'John is coming, John is coming...'

He recites this in time with the rings-in time with his breathing, out of time with his heartbeats. Clutching onto the phone like a talisman, he waits. Six rings… seven rings… eight rings… With each one he becomes more desperate until finally, John picks up the phone.

'Sherlock?'

Without knowing the reason, Sherlock begins to cry. He doesn't want to move-for fear of being spiked-but it's difficult, because he's shaking. Accidentally, he drops his talisman and it falls upright on the floor, the image of the speaker flickering at him from the screen. It's a little light against the darkness-like a tiny beacon of hope-and for a moment Sherlock feels relieved. But it's just a moment, then the feeling has passed.

'Sherlock?' John sounds concerned. 'Sherlock, where are you right now?'

Sherlock sobs, letting go of the breath he was holding. The emotional barriers in his throat break, spilling his words across to John in a flood.

'I- I don't know. I don't remember, I was working... Working on a case at… at… the place where we live-I don't know. I'm scared, John- I didn't know who else to call. I didn't know who-who else would help me… John... help me... please...'

'It's alright,' from the other end of the phone John sounds collected, though is attempting to tame an outburst of his own. 'I'm coming to get you, Sherlock- I'm ten minutes away.'

'No, John, I'm not home! I'm… somewhere else. A-a hot prison... There's sharpness everywhere, and I can't see clearly... Every move I make punctures me and I can't… can't do it... I need you, John... Need you...'

'You're in an iron maiden?'

'Yes!' Saying it aloud made it all the more dreadful and Sherlock wails, helplessly. He wants to rub his eyes but cannot raise his arms; he thinks he's been bound-perhaps with a rope- or maybe he's drugged and paralysed. It's too dark to see, and impossible to tell.

'Oh, God...' John murmurs. 'Oh God, Sherlock, listen to me: it'll be okay. You'll be fine, just… don't move, okay? Don't move an inch. Just concentrate on my voice and I'll be there, Sherlock: it'll be okay now. I'm coming.'

Sherlock couldn't answer. He could only nod and repeat his lucky chant, over and over again. But it was quickly losing meaning…

_John is coming, John is coming…_

_…But will he get here in time?_

He's steadying his breathing when a cramp seizes his chest. Abandoning his concentration, Sherlock begins to panic.

'John, I can't breathe! My oxygen must be going-John I can't breathe!' As a tear slides down his cheek, Sherlock wonders if he'll cry his body dry before he suffocates. John responds but Sherlock does't catch the words-fear courses through him and all at once he can _feel-_Sherlock feels his situation:

He's trapped and can't escape. It's warm and tight, and he's being compressed-the smell of his own sweat hangs thick in the air. He gulps-attempting to control his breathing- but is incapable of becoming calm. He feels the rusty nails that surround him- waiting to press into his skin- every jerk of his muscle earning him a stab. It hurts-it hurts so badly, and he's about to call for John when a thought becomes ingrained in his mind: John couldn't save him. John was just a voice- a piece of metal on the floor. John didn't know what it was like.

Sherlock needs to escape—to be freed of this casket. He wants the pain because he knows that if he gets hurt enough, eventually it will stop. He doesn't want to die long and slow-he wants it to be over-but… he does care for John. Sherlock wants to tell him, so he wouldn't blame himself... but he wouldn't bother explaining, because John wouldn't understand. Sherlock will just muster a few words, so John could sleep soundly at night. Sherlock wonders if John will sleep soundly and dream of him.

'You can't help me, John- I'll die before that. I need to do this myself, I need to find the other end—'

For a moment, John doesn't understand. Then the meaning settles in-

'NO! Sherlock, no! You move, and… if you move the spikes will pierce you- do you want that? Do you want to die? I'm almost there-be patient, Sherlock- don't try to escape! I'm close, Sherlock-I promise I'm close!'

But the voice on the other end has resigned. 'It's okay, John-you don't have to worry about me any more. I'm in a prison, but I won't be any longer. I'm glad I could talk with you, but now I'm going to be set free. I'm sorry that it means I won't see you again.'

'No! Sherlock, you have to stay with me!' John screams, phone inches from his face. 'Keep talking to me, Sherlock, I'm minutes away! Sherlock? SHERLOCK!'

Sherlock moves his leg forward and treads on his phone. The screen cracks from the middle and the light ceases, filling Sherlock's vision with blissful, silent darkness. There's only one thing left to do to make the darkness complete.

'I'm coming, Sherlock… Please hold on...' John mumbles, pressing his phone against his chin in prayer.

* * *

John is flustered when he arrives at the door of 221B Baker Street. Skidding to a halt at Mrs Hudson's apartment, he's thankful that today she's outside, sweeping. Gasping for breath, he does not waste time with greetings-

'Mrs—Mrs Hudson… did you… did you hear shouting?'

She leans the broom against the wall and looks at John, thoughtfully.

'Now that you mention it, I think I did. I've just got back from shopping, but there was an awful mess by the door—'

'Mrs Hudson, I have to get to Sherlock. I think he's in danger, but I left my jacket at Scotland Yard and I don't have my key. Could you—'

'Spare key? I'll get you one, dear. Come in for a moment while I find it.' Turning on her heel she disappears through her door. John follows her inside, praying silently that things aren't as bad as he envisions.

'He really needs to start solving his problems over the telephone,' Mrs Hudson informs John, over the sound of rummaging. 'You running around all the time- it's not good for your health, John. And Sherlock's health, well... I dread to think how that stands.'

There is a thump from the floor above them, and both John and Mrs Hudson flinch.

'Mrs Hudson, I have to get to him right now,' John reminds her, firmly as she gazes at the ceiling. 'If I don't, he… He might hurt himself. He kept saying that he needed to escape... He's trapped again.' John adds, hoping these short sentences will convince her of the seriousness.

'Ah, yes... The 'iron maiden' problem? I heard the two of you shouting about that one last night. He's quite convinced, isn't he?'

'Yes. How he's finding the drugs is beyond me but he does. He always does.' John frowns.

As Mrs Hudson places the spare key into John's palm, she squeezes his cold hand with her warm one affectionately. 'I had a friend just like him, dear,' she tells John, delicately. 'Do you know what Sherlock needs? Counselling. He's not going to like it, but they say it works a treat. I know Sherlock's going through a dark patch, but any longer like this and he just won't last. I do care about that boy.' Her expression hardens. 'When is he going to stop thinking that his body is a prison?'

'I don't know,' John replies, making his way to the door. 'But if Sherlock believes his body is an iron maiden for his spirit, it's only a matter of time before he tries to get out.'

Sighing, he glances at the floor up above them.

'I just hope I arrive before he tries to commit suicide, like the last times.'


End file.
